


The Heartbeat of the Universe

by wingedspirit



Series: Winter 2019 Prompts [8]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: 31 Days of Ineffables Advent Calendar Challenge (Good Omens), 31 Days of Ineffables Advent Calendar Challenge 2019 (Good Omens), M/M, Mild Angst, Misuse of opera lyrics, Unrepentant Fluff, flagrant invention of angel lore
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-09
Updated: 2019-12-09
Packaged: 2021-02-25 23:07:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,075
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21733465
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wingedspirit/pseuds/wingedspirit
Summary: Crowley reflects on the meaning of singing. (Crowley is also a hopeless romantic.)
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Series: Winter 2019 Prompts [8]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1560823
Comments: 8
Kudos: 112





	The Heartbeat of the Universe

**Author's Note:**

> Written for [drawlight](https://archiveofourown.org/users/drawlight)’s [advent calendar prompt list](https://drawlight.tumblr.com/post/188869931294/aziraphale-crowley-for-half-an-hour-youve-been) (day 8, choir).

It is a common human misconception that the singing of angelic choirs is intended to glorify God.

It’s not; and it’s strange to him that humans don’t understand that, because it works just the same for them. Where there is one voice raised in song, more often than not there are others — not only in organised choirs, but singing along at concerts, in pubs, at parties, or just because they all know and love the same song and want to revel in the joy of it.

Of course now there’s a whole bunch of “Holy, Holy, Holy,” “Glory, Glory, Hallelujah,” “God of Glory, Lord of Love” and all that rot in the heavenly repertoire; but there’s also a quantity of more secular music, or so Aziraphale tells him — and Aziraphale has no reason to lie. The modern angelic choir is just as likely to be singing an orchestral piece originally intended for instruments only, or harmonising about raindrops on roses and whiskers on kittens.

(Crowley is quite certain Rodgers and Hammerstein must be spinning at terminal velocity, by now. Could probably hook something up to their graves and get electricity off of them.)

But that is now. Before — when Crowley was still an angel, when human music hadn’t been invented yet — singing had been about togetherness. There hadn’t been any words to the music, just the melody formed by a thousand voices joining and fitting together into a greater whole.

Singing had been about togetherness; and he’s never, ever fit in.

Oh, he has a beautiful voice, and everyone had told him so, back in the day; and at first, he’d had his pick of the choirs, he’d been outright courted to join. But he never could get the hang of singing in a group. He was always the one who held the final note a little too long; or forgot the melody halfway through the piece and fell into silence, leaving everyone else to scramble to cover for him; or sang an octave too high, or an octave too low; or went too slow, or too fast. Name a musical sin, and he’s likely committed it.

After the fifth choir that politely hinted that, perhaps, he would fit in better elsewhere, he’d given up, and had just thrown himself into his work. Sang his loneliness into his stars. _Where do I belong? Why can’t I find it?_ If he’d made rather a few more multiple star systems than had been in the original plans, well, nobody had to know.

And then, of course, there had been Lucifer.

 _With us_ , the Morningstar had said. _You belong with us._

And oh, how he’d hoped.

He’d found out too late that it had been a lie.

There is no singing in Hell. It’s not that demons can’t sing — most have kept their voice, just as it was, despite screaming all the way down during their Fall. But there is no togetherness in Hell, no brotherhood; everyone is in it only for themselves. He’d been just as alone in Hell as he’d been in Heaven. He’d left as soon as he could.

And he’d met an angel.

* * *

They’re in the bookshop, packing up Aziraphale’s books. Or, well — Aziraphale is packing. Crowley is sprawled out on the sofa, occasionally calling out helpful suggestions along the lines of “no, the cottage is definitely not big enough to fit all your books, not if we want to actually _live_ there, I refuse to spend the rest of my life tripping over book stacks” and “no, angel, you don’t need five copies of _Hamlet_ , the bookshop will still be here if you change your mind about which one’s your favourite”.

Aziraphale’s ancient gramophone is filling the space with music, playing record after record without either of them actually needing to change it — the current one is _La Traviata_ , an opera which Crowley tolerates and Aziraphale, always a fan of the sad ones, absolutely loves. Aziraphale is humming happily along, poking out from between the bookshelves every now and then just to smile at Crowley; and Crowley is happy, and in love, and still cannot quite believe he gets to have this.

He’s _happy_. And it’s making him want to do something entirely foolish, and there’s nothing stopping him, is there?

The tenor on the record obligingly shuts up, and Crowley picks up the melody, instead.

 _Un dì, felice, etereo,  
Mi balenaste innante,  
E da quel dì tremante  
Vissi d'ignoto amor…_ [1]

Aziraphale comes out from between the bookshelves to stand in front of Crowley, hands on his hips, cheeks very pink. “Really, Crowley.”

Crowley smiles at him and carries on.

 _…di quell'amor, quell'amor ch'è palpito  
Dell'universo, dell'universo intero,  
Misterioso, misterioso altero,  
Croce, croce e delizia,  
Croce e delizia, delizia al cor._ [2]

“Well,” Aziraphale says, sitting on the sofa and pulling Crowley into his arms. “I’m hardly the image of a nineteenth-century courtesan dying of consumption. And you know I wouldn’t —” The soprano is singing about only being able to offer friendship, about not knowing how to love. “You know. I was lying to you, and to myself, for so long.”

“I know. It still fits, though. I was head over heels in love with you the moment I saw you, and — you always remind me. You’re an angel. You’re not occult —”

“— I’m ethereal,” Aziraphale finishes, chuckling. “You’re terrible.”

“You know me.” Crowley grins. “So terrible nowhere would have me.” He’d intended it as a joke, but it comes out more honest than he’d intended, rawer.

“I never fit in either, you know,” Aziraphale says, very quietly. “I was just very good at pretending, until I stopped wanting to. And then they no longer wanted me.”

“They’re fools. You’re worth a hundred of them,” Crowley says, fiercely. “A thousand.”

“So are you, love,” Aziraphale says, just as fierce; and pulls Crowley closer, into a gentle kiss.

Crowley hums, and holds Aziraphale tight, and loses himself in the kiss.

Here.

He belongs here.

* * *

**[1]**

_One day, happy, ethereal, you  
appeared in front of me,  
and from that day, trembling,  
I’ve lived of unspoken love._

Crowley is changing the adjective from feminine (“eterea”) to masculine (“etereo”) to make it clear he’s not just singing — he’s singing to Aziraphale. [ back to story ]

**[2]**

_That love, that love which is the heartbeat  
of the universe, the whole universe,  
Mysterious, mysterious and proud,  
torture, torture and delight  
torture and delight, delight to the heart._ [ back to story ]

**Author's Note:**

> [La Traviata](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/La_traviata) is not a happy opera (I have seen it so many times I've lost count and I always, always end up sobbing my eyes out from Act 2 onwards), but [the aria I'm referencing](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9GKGk_3LT3M) is very romantic.
> 
> I can, as ever, be found on [Tumblr](https://wingedspirit.tumblr.com/).


End file.
